


Thorns Tormented Just So

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: College, F/F, Minor Character Death, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-13
Updated: 2013-05-04
Packaged: 2017-11-29 03:17:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/682113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is Kanaya Maryam, and one day you'll meddle your way to the bottom of the mystery that is your roommate. You just hope it won't be too late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

August 7  
Dear Diary,  
I've come a long way since that night three years ago. However, I fear that in my time "employed" by those pimps, I've been irrevocably damaged. I can only hope I'll survive on my own, with such a group of people possessing a seemingly unlimited amount of resources out to kill me. 

+

August 21  
Dear Diary,  
I've done something deplorable. Necessary, but deplorable.

+

The first time you see Rose Lalonde, you decide that you don't like her too much. Her smile was a little too forced, her speech a little too stiff, and her morals a little too loose. You could just tell, by the way she coquettishly averted her eyes from you. By the ever so slightly too-short skirt and ever so slightly too-thin shirt she was wearing. The pale lines left by healed scars marking her body. The dark bags under her eyes she hadn't bothered to cover with concealer. The tattoo of initials that weren't hers on her upper left arm. Those weren't just a fashion statement. 

Or were they?

She was your assigned roommate. You weren't even acquaintances. You didn't know Rose, or any other humans, very well. For all you knew, everyone here was like her. Maybe you should have paid more attention in your human culture and etiquette class. 

Which reminds you that you should really be paying more attention to what she was saying instead of spacing out. Some of the most memorable concepts from that long ago class were common to both human and troll etiquette systems. 

"I suppose you're my roommate. Kanaya Maryam?" Rose had rung the doorbell, even though she technically lived here. She was still standing in the dim hallway that smelled vaguely of spoiling fast food. You narrow your eyes at Rose's face, as though you could get her to stop examining your green and black dress using the sheer force of your squinting. She was examining your handiwork with the thoroughness of an accountant, and you're squirming inside. You don't like how the inspection makes your breakfast feel. 

"Yes. And I take it you're Rose Lalonde." 

She doesn't appear to notice your squinting, and continues to not make eye contact. You satisfy yourself with taking in the details of her black lipstick and her distinct lack of other makeup. She could really do with some concealer for those bags, but you appreciate that she doesn't go overboard with cosmetics. 

Rose doesn't grace your lowly person with a verbal answer. She nods, a succinct gesture that said she didn't want to continue the conversation, if you could call your brief exchange one. You step to the side to allow Rose to roll a single beat-up suitcase into the main area of your dorm. The threadbare material appears barely strong enough to hold itself together, let alone support what is probably forty pounds of clothing, hygienic products, and textbooks. 

Was that all she had to bring from her former home? You'd brought multiple suitcases and boxes filled with useless trinkets, all of which were sitting in aesthetically pleasing piles against one wall.  
Rose passes your mountain of suitcases and boxes with only a cursory glance. No doubt that glance had been disdainful, too. She rolls her suitcase into the room with the door labeled "Rose," and locks the door.

You...

Can almost not believe this. But you've experienced enough to expect surprises and mysteries that never get figured out. If Rose chooses to be aloof, you won't question it. 

You retire to your room, the door to it labeled with "Kanaya," and wait for tomorrow. 

+

It's only 6:12 in the morning when you get up, but Rose has already left. If she continued to take classes so early in the morning, the bags under her eyes would almost certainly get much worse. Was there any way to suggest a good brand of concealer to Rose without making it sound like a veiled insult? You really should have paid more attention in your human culture and etiquette class. 

Luckily, your first class on your first day of school was Human Etiquette 127A, in the Claw Building. A required class for trolls that didn't pass an equivalent of that class in their old schools. You vow you'll pass this time around. 

You carefully choose a suitable outfit and exit the dormitory. 

The Claw Building isn't far, but you still find yourself perspiring after a few minutes in the heat. It's not really that bad, though. The trees and shrubbery are still green with summer and most people are outside, doing whatever it was they did during summer breaks. You pass a giggling lady running after her barkbeast, and say hello to a group of children staring at your asymmetric horns. You step out of the way of a sprinkler ineffectually watering someone's lawnring. A door opens and slams shut behind you. 

"KANAYA!" You have a feeling you know this male's voice before you turn around. 

Sure enough, Karkat is rushing towards you, with his default scowl set firmly in place. You smile and wave. It's hard to be intimidated by someone half a head shorter than you, no matter how angry they always acted. 

"Are you also headed to Human Culture?" you ask him. 

Karkat rolls his eyes. "No, I'm going to the fruity rumpus asshole factory for certified failures at life. Yes, I'm going to Human fucking Etiquette." 

"You don't seem to be looking forward to that." 

"Oh really?"

"Yes, really." Karkat is about to start a rant. You can feel it. 

"I poured a fucking deluge of my freakish mutant blood into that course, and I have to take it again because I blow one nookbiting test at the end of the year. Fair grading my ass. But guess who else fails? No one. Not one single shitfaced tool is who. It's like the teacher was plotting to flunk me. Hemophobic asshats like him shouldn't be teaching any kind of human etiquette business without knowing the first thing about modern troll etiquette. They shouldn't have ever gotten rid of the None of Your Business policy for blood color. At least if they kept that, I wouldn't have a flimsy excuse for vomiting words like anyone's going to listen. Come to think of it, everyone is just making shitty decisions all over the place. The police are too busy polishing off nutrition plateaus of burnt tuber paste to even try to investigate crimes. The convenience store over there ran out of canned mushrooms and they're still out of stock. I'm going to fail Human Etiquette again because the only thing I ever do right is fuck things up." 

You tune him out for a bit, until you both arrive at the Human Etiquette classroom. You enter and take a seat. 

The rest of the day is a series of ice breakers and course overviews. You can't claim to remember most of it in any great detail. 

+

The frantic mood dies down soon enough. Rose shares a few classes with you, and she all but ignores you during them. She participates only enough to pass, though she fervently takes notes from the back of the classroom when she thinks no one is looking. You can tell she's not stupid--quite the opposite, in fact--but you can't understand why she tries to hide herself. You'd expected that any lady with a mind like hers would be a snarky broad at the very least, wielding lightning-fast words that stung a minute after being said.

Then again, you'd also expected that those sorts of spirited young ladies would have red hair, from your long nights reading "trashy rainbow drinker novels full of half-baked stereotypical excuses for idiots," as Karkat calls them. You defend your right to read romance novels, but you concede that perhaps you'd started experiencing the world with unrealistic expectations.

But back on topic. Rose was neither snarky nor a redhead. 

Your name is Kanaya Maryam and you are baffled by this Rose Lalonde.


	2. Chapter 2

You go to your classes and do homework as the temperatures drop from pleasantly cool to freezing. Rose's metaphorical temperature drops at about the same rate. Light drizzles become icy rains that leave you shivering through layers of shirts and a useless raincoat. 

You'd thought that if you got to know Rose, she would lighten up. You might become friends with her. The amount of progress you've made is disheartening. 

+

"Rose, do you have any preferences in regard to color?" you ask one day in October. You mentally slap yourself. The verbose phrasing brings you back to your days as a six-sweep-old. Not to mention that English speakers also often associated "color" with race, and "preferences" with their version of potential matesprits. You fight the urge to turn your head and look out the window in shame.

"Should I ask whether you're offhandedly attempting to flirt with me?" Of course she'd take advantage of that. Snarky broad or not, how could Rose possibly resist? There are traces of a blush creeping up her neck, but catching it doesn't console you nearly enough.

You lose the internal battle against yourself, and look out the window in defeat. It's probably a beautiful day outside--with a bright blue sky and fluffy clouds--but you can't be sure about that with all the water stains and smudges of dirt distorting the view. You'll have to get around to cleaning the glass sometime. 

"No. I meant color as in your favorite color." You can feel your own jade green blood rising to your cheeks. You hope it's not too noticeable against your gray skin. You turn back to Rose. It was rude to not look at people you talk to. 

You don't suffer too much secondhand embarrassment at her choice of a light pink top with an orange skirt and neon yellow leggings, despite the ensemble being a bit skimpy for your tastes.

Rose frowns. She doesn't smile patronizingly. She frowns, and it looks all wrong on her. "...Purple," she decides. She doesn't ask you for yours.

She's too perfect and you don't know how to find out where she's not. You know you've tried.

The more time passed, the more awkward it felt to still be trying to get basic information out of Rose. You asked Karkat if he was having a similar problem with his human roommate, but they'd long since become friends. Of course. Maybe you should try being more loud and angry all the time, since it seemed to work so well for Karkat.

You don't actually try that; you're too much of a coward.

A month and a half into the fall semester, you realize it's not that you don't like Rose, per se. It's that you're scared of her. 

+

"Kanaya, would you mind accompanying me during my shopping?"

You don't mind. Being afraid of Rose is not the same as being annoyed if she asks for company, so you follow Rose through a myriad of generic department stores. You both buy a few pumpkins. Rose continues to pick up more things--lipstick, yarn, ink pens, socks, a pack of green "W" magnets--but you only wander aimlessly with a shopping cart full of pumpkins. You have no idea how you're going to get all these pumpkins back to your dorm without a car.

Multiple shenanigans later, you and Rose are back at your dorm with most of the pumpkins and other merchandise intact. Rose was laughing. Not one of her polite, controlled, I'm-laughing-because-social-customs-tell-me-to laughs, but a real laugh. It was musical and warm and as perfect as Rose always tried so hard to be. It was the most beautiful sound you've heard since leaving for college. She couldn't really be all that scary if she laughed like that.

You think that maybe you shouldn't be afraid of Rose. It made no sense, when you were both in good spirits and surrounded by bright orange pumpkins.

"Do you want to carve these?" The question tumbles out of your mouth before you can deliberate over its phrasing. You must have done something right, because Rose answers almost immediately.

"Of course."

There's a warm and fuzzy feeling inside your stomach. It's not familiar anymore, but it's still a feeling you recognize. You realize you haven't been happy in a long time. 

You've never celebrated Halloween to a very extreme extent. You carve some simple, cheesy face designs onto your pumpkins, while Rose elegantly stabs hers into oddly shaped creatures with numerous tentacles. The floor is painted in chunky orange salsa by the time you're both done. The stains won't come out of your dress for a while, but you can't care less about a few spots of pumpkin juice right now. 

It's not much, but it makes you happier than going door to door, shamelessly begging for tooth-rotting sweets. You'd thought that college students wouldn't be so eager to continue their old habits, but you were obviously wrong about a few of the undergraduates. Karkat had generously donated an ATTENTION ALL GIDDY FUCKERS: GO THE HELL AWAY sign for your main door. You'd carefully added a "please" at the bottom to make sure there was _some_ sort of politeness present. You hear a few annoyed sighs and receding footsteps every few minutes from the hallway. It's nice knowing Karkat's gift hadn't gone to waste. 

Rose doesn't stop at crudely carving pumpkins of eldritch abominations. After all the pumpkin guts and pieces were sitting in the trash, she gets up and disappears into her room. At first, you'd suspected that she'd gotten sick of you, and was going to spend the rest of the night hiding. But a minute later, Rose comes out again, with her pack of green "W" magnets.

You'd been wondering why she had bought those magnets, though you hadn't mustered the pluckiness to ask. You watch in confusion as Rose tears apart the plastic wrapping, takes out a single green "W," and attaches it to her upper lip with a piece of tape. It's not a very convincing fake moustache. The corner of her mouth twitches into a half-smirk like she was afraid to smirk all the way. She suddenly looks a lot younger, more innocent. A lot more ridiculous, too, but that was beside the point. There's a distant look in her eyes. 

The last rays of light from the setting sun fall orange and gold on Rose. The dust motes floating languidly around her glow. The green of the moustache clashes with Rose's lavender skirt and gray blouse, but it _works_. Perfect, as always, yet more so than when Rose forced it. You wish you could just remember this moment forever.

It ends all too soon. A spark of anger appears in Rose's eyes. Her eyebrows draw together and she grimaces. She steps back, out of the dying sunlight and hunches over slightly, glaring at the grimy window. She huffs and rips the moustache from her face. The magnet flies across the room, landing perfectly inside the trash can next to the oven. Forced perfection, you note. Mystifying how quickly the switch between real and fake took place.

For a moment, you think you see her entire outfit turn orange. Eye-searingly bright, like fire. You blink and it's as it was before: a too-short lavender skirt with a faint brown stain on the side and a too-thin gray blouse not entirely useful for cold weather.

Rose storms away, very quietly, before you can ask her what's wrong. You don't for even a moment consider following her. She was once again an unapproachable enigma. 

The opened package of green "W" magnets looks so tragic, lying there on the worn carpet.


	3. Chapter 3

The icy rains from October transform into blizzards and hailstorms in November. Winter arrived early.

+

You end up spending Thanksgiving evening at Vriska's house. How did she get her own house, when she's reportedly more broke than her left arm was after she and Terezi got into a fight over that one pair of red boots? Nobody knows.

"Just that lucky, I guess! Almost as lucky as all you guys are to know someone as awesome as me!"

You don't really want to be here. Once upon a time, Vriska was your moirail. Once upon a time, you'd wanted to be in a quadrant a little brighter red than diamonds with her. You hate your six-sweep-old self for ever thinking like that. No one could ever deal with a bitch like her in a flushed relationship. And you know you always get shunted into conciliatory quadrants, auspisticism in particular. You're the village two-wheel device for everyone's messed up blackrom needs.

You wish you were at your dorm. Even though Rose's presence would surely make you feel out of place, it would be worth it when you felt even more out of place around Vriska. You shouldn't have listened to Porrim and Karkat.

"You need to meet more people, Kanaya. It's not healthy for you to stay inside all day, reading and sewing and blundering your way through the beginnings of a friendship," Porrim had said. "Have a little fun! Learn how to talk to people, and you can use that experience to talk to Rose." Your cousin made a convincing argument, even over the phone and miles away from you.

"If John is making me go, then by the holy fatass mother of grubs you're going to go, too," Karkat had said. "My aggravation sponge is going to implode if no semi-sane person is somewhere nearby. And it'd be all your sorry self's fault for thinking a self-loathing asshole like me could take care of two airheaded bulgelickers in the same room." It was clearly an exaggeration, but you understood the sentiment behind it.

So here you are, a knot in your stomach, sitting at a way too pimped out table with two dozen people you've seen around town. You're all taking turns expressing things you're thankful for, as is apparently tradition for humans.

Sitting across from you, Karkat is looking at the pirate-themed tablecloth with a vaguely hostile expression. He doesn't appear to care that it would be his turn in a few short minutes. You get the feeling that he'd flip off everyone and try to leave if pressured to admit he was thankful for anything.

On his right, John is listening to Meulin gush about how thankful she is for her ships. John isn't exactly staring wide-eyed, utterly entranced by the intricacies of Meulin's numerous One True Pairings, but you wouldn't be surprised if he was. He just exudes cheeriness. 

On Karkat's left, Gamzee is twirling his fork in a plate of spaghetti. He isn't purposefully ignoring Meulin, but seems genuinely absent-minded. You wonder how many sopor pies Gamzee had eaten before the dinner party, but quickly discard that train of thought. You get the feeling that Gamzee is so high already all the time that it wouldn't make a difference exactly how many sopor pies he had most recently, or how much sopor he undoubtedly added to his spaghetti.

When it's John's turn to speak, Karkat looks up at you and mouths, _my think pan is going to fucking turn to mush and spill out through my auricular sponge clots._ You shake your head and try to convey as much reassurance through the movement as possible. It doesn't work.

Karkat's head drops unceremoniously onto the table. The muffled smacking noise it produces is chilling. The table doesn't shake in the slightest, and all the dishes remain undisturbed. Vriska obviously spared no expense for this solid piece of furniture.

"FUCK!" Karkat rubs his now bleeding forehead. Trolls have stronger skulls than humans, but he could still have a concussion. Karkat stands up, wobbling a little, and turns towards Vriska at the end of the table. "Fuck this, fuck you, and fuck human traditions. I'm so fucking done here."

"Whoa, brother." Gamzee takes Karkat's arm and gently pulls him back into his chair. "You gotta stay up in your motherfuckin' chill, bro." Gamzee sloppily dabs at the wound with his partially used table napkin. Some crumbs fall from the cloth, and litter the front of Karkat's sweater.

"FUCK YOU TOO, YOU SLUDGE-SLURPING DOUCHEBAG." Karkat flails uselessly. Some of the crumbs are dislodged. Most aren't. You cover your mouth to keep yourself from snorting.

"Aw man, you gotta just get your motherfucking wicked zone on. Can't be all angry and shit. Our good brother John's waiting for you to be sittin' down to tell everyone about some bitchtits miracles." Gamzee wraps himself around a very livid Karkat.

You're not going to lie. This is the most entertaining thing you've seen all night.

"Get your Faygo-worshiping self off me. You were better when you were staring at your sopor-saturated pasta like it held all the secrets of the universe."

"Not till you're motherfuckin' chilled down, best friend. Shoosh."

"FUCK NO!"

"Fuck yes, my brother. Shhhhhh..."

By some inscrutable combination of shooshes and paps, Gamzee manages to quiet Karkat enough that John can start telling everyone about some bitchtits miracles.

"Karkat? Are you sort of calm now?" John turns and looks at Karkat, more or less unfazed by the answering scowl sent his way. "Um. I'll take that as a yes. Okay. I'm thankful that Karkat is sort of calm now." He stage-whispers, "You might want to get a bandage for that," and continues normally, "I'm thankful that Gamzee is such a good moirail to Karkat. I'm also thankful that Vriska doesn't mind inviting me over after the whole breakup thing." John goes on about other people, and it hurts how sincere he is. You get the feeling that John is, personality-wise, the perfect roommate for Karkat.

Contrary to your prediction, Karkat does not flip off everyone when it's his turn to speak. He stays silent. You can tell there are words waiting to come out, but they're being held in. John nudges him.

"I don't know! John, I guess thanks for not being a complete shitstain all the time."

"Awww, that's so sweet of you! Heheh."

"Fuck you. I retract that statement. John and Vriska, I'm thankful you two broke up. Both of you deserve better."

"Hey! Are you implying I'm not good enough for John?!"

"Since when have I implied any other fucking thing? If this is news to you, your head must be even emptier than I thought it was."

"Well, excuuuuuuuuse me for wanting it to work out!"

Karkat stands up again. Vriska stands up immediately after, holding a gravy boat.

"If you throw that gravy boat anywhere near my general direction, you are going to fucking pay."

"Hahahaha! Like I'm scared of you. Bring it on, Karkles!" Vriska throws the gravy boat at Karkat. It flies at breakneck speed, and Karkat almost dodges it at the last second, hopping to the side. A glob of gravy stickily slides down from one shoulder of his sweater.

"Vriska, you didn't have to do that! It's not like we're still a thing. Can you two please not fight?" Poor innocent, uninformed John. He really doesn't understand how these things work.

"Hell no! This is waaaaaaaay too much fun. And who said it had anything to do with our breakup?" Vriska picks up a plate of strawberries and tosses it at Karkat like a frisbee. "We were pretty bad at being moirails, anyway. Karkat was right about how it couldn't work out; I'll give him that." John yanks Karkat out of the way long before the nutrition plateau crashes against the wall. The strawberries are destroyed instantly upon impact. The plate falls to the floor and smashes into dozens of unsalvageable pottery shards. 

"As a bystander, I shouldn't become involved. However, Miss Serket, you've wasted a perfectly good plate of delicious red strawberries!" Terezi stands and efficiently sends the roasted turkey from her plate onto Vriska's white dress with a large serving spoon. "The honorable judge requests that you sit down and take the subsequent spoon drubbing like the strong, independent woman you claim to be."

"Like hell I'm gonna sit down! I'm not a lame loser like Karkat." Vriska leans over the table, knocking over several glasses of water in the process, and shoves a lemon meringue pie in Terezi's face at the same time Karkat throws a handful of grubloaf at Vriska.

"It would do everyone a lot of good if you hooligans would _control yourselves._ " Equius is sweating profusely, as usual. The fork he's gripping is shaking and literally getting bent out of shape.

There's a moment of awkward silence. Remains of strawberries slide down the wall. The gravy on Karkat's sweater dries. Terezi mechanically removes the foil pie pan from her face, leaving behind the pie. Chunks of turkey and grubloaf fall from Vriska's dress and hair. 

Terezi breaks the ice. "Shut up." She licks some pie off her face. Then she deliberately wipes off a bit of pie filling and lobs it at Equius. She doesn't miss.

"AAAAAAAAARRRRRRRGGGHGHGHGHGHHHHHHHH!" Equius starts to flip the table. He's strong enough to succeed, too, so you discreetly vacate your chair and tiptoe behind a nearby pillar. You have a bad feeling about where this is going.

Nepeta pounces over the almost half-flipped table, sending Equius onto the floor. The table crashes back down, with a good chunk of the food and crockery acrobatically pirouetting to their premature deaths. You cringe, and tiptoe further away. If you can find a flight of stairs and avoid falling down them, you should be safe for the duration of the impending food fight.

\--Or even better, a bathroom. You lock the door and listen to the cacophony of shattering glass and ceramics punctuated by short yells for the next few minutes. It's quite boring when you're not participating.

As all food fights tend to do at some point, it ends. You reenter the dining room as the dust settles. Everyone is a mess and the table is broken in half. How did you not hear that happen?

Feferi is slapping Eridan, who's taking it like a wizard-in-training that deserves a slapfest for breaking Vriska's table. Nepeta is bear hugging Equius, though it's probably unnecessary when the table is already flipped and broken. Meulin is enthusiastically taking pictures of the soon-to-be rancid battlefield from behind a chair. Others are stumbling around and wiping squished food from their eyes, with the exception of Terezi. She's licking the food off.

"I should tell you that your moirail is gone," you say to Karkat. Blood is still drying on his head, but he doesn't look like he has a serious concussion.

"Yeah. Yeah, he is. Color me sur-fucking-prised. He's probably offering some shitty Faygo to his jackass clown gods on the roof or whatever. Who the fuck even knows what that weird swill is for in his religion?"

"Are you embarrassed by your outburst earlier?"

"God dammit, I'm trying to forget that ever happened. Past me is the worst piece of trash that ever fell ass-first into the unsanitary landfill trying its damned hardest to pass itself off as life. Go bother John if you're so desperate for inane conversation."

Desperate for inane conversation, you locate John across the room. He doesn't appear too bothered by your presence.

"So I hear you're Karkat's roommate," you comment, though you already know he is. Karkat complained about this particular "damp sack of puke with the brightest fucking shit-eating overbite in all of paradox space" often enough.

"Yeah, I'm John. You're..." He pauses for a moment. "...Kanya?"

"Close. Kanaya Maryam. It's nice to meet you, John."

"Nice to meet you, too! You're a lot more polite than Karkat. It feels kind of weird. I've gotten used to all of Karkat's 'fucks' and 'shits' and stuff."

"I've noticed. Not too put off by his default attitude towards the universe, I see."

"Nope! Once you get to know him, his ranting is pretty hilarious. Who knew there were so many different things you could call people you don't like?"

It isn't like your conversations with Rose. You don't have to think too hard about anything you're about to say. You relax and let yourself talk like a person with Human Etiquette skills, and it turns out that it's not that hard. It's not even that hard to steer the conversation towards Rose, since you were already talking about John's roommate.

"You're having a hard time talking to Rose? That's not too surprising. It was forever before she was okay with talking to me, too."

"You know Rose?" This was news to you. 

"Yeah, my sister met her online and made me talk to her. I didn't know she was going to college here, though. The last time she talked to me was... It was a while ago. Three years-ish, I think? Anyway, she said she was going to this remote place with no electricity or satellite signals or whatever for a research project, and she didn't know when she'd come back. And it was really bad timing, 'cause the day she was supposed to leave, her brother got killed."

"Oh my god."

"I know! It was awful, on the news and everything. That's how I found out. Some people heard Dave--that was her brother's name, Dave-- screaming somewhere, but when the police came to investigate, there was only blood left. And they never found his body. He--" John swallows. "Dave was my best bro. I left a ton of messages on his phone after I saw the news, asking if he was okay and if the reporters were lying. I didn't think he could die. He learned all those fancy swordfighting things from his brother. How could he get killed like that?" John sighs and closes his eyes.

"You don't have to tell me," you say. You haven't reached the Condolences unit in Human Etiquette yet. You don't know how to proceed. Oh god, what if John started crying? You didn't have any tissues in your pockets, not that you had pockets in the first place, and people are still milling around the room. What if someone thought you'd made John cry by some unforgivable insult?

"I-it's okay. It was a long time ago. I shouldn't get so emotional about it anymore, but he was my best friend, you know?" John smiles wryly. "And then he died. I guess I should thank you. I haven't talked about this to anyone yet, not even my sister."

"...I don't really think I can say 'you're welcome' to that."

John laughs. "Yeah, I guess you can't." He doesn't sound too sad for a person that had been on the brink of tears less than a minute ago. "That was kind of off-topic, anyway. We were talking about Rose before, right? I tried to call her, too, but she must have left for her research project trip already. I don't know if she ever heard what happened to Dave." 

"I could put you in touch with her, if you'd like to ask."

"It'd be nice to talk to her, but I'm probably not going to ask about Dave. She has this ability of knowing stuff that she shouldn't already. She's really kind of terrifyingly smart." Now this isn't news to you. Rose is the scariest thing you've seen since Terezi's outfit at senior prom. "Hm... It's actually almost her birthday. I should at least say 'hi' to Rose." 

"You can come by our dorm around then. It's not far." You write down your dormitory's address and your room number on a napkin, and give it to John. "I don't believe you mentioned when Rose's birthday was?"

"December fourth."

"I'll see you then." You could end the conversation there, but you can't resist a parting shot. "You're quite the informer, giving away information like I'm someone you can trust." 

"Well, Karkat talks about you sometimes and I think he trusts you. No reason why I shouldn't, too." Sweet, but naïve of him. You feel indebted to John now, who's spilled the contents of his memory to you and received no information in return. There's one thing you can tell him that he might find useful. 

"Am I correct in recalling you said you like practical jokes?" 

"It's in the family! I'm the pranking master. It is me." 

"Then you could likely do something with the fact that Karkat is ticklish." It's hardly fair compensation, but John's entire face still lights up like it's Twelfth Perigree's Eve. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Karkat walking over. He probably heard you say that last sentence. Too late now. 

Karkat is not amused and orders you to leave the building. He doesn't actually have the authority to do that, with the house belonging to Vriska and all, but you wave goodbye to your friends all the same. Before the door slams shut, you see John's prankster face surface, already planning how to catch Karkat off guard. Adorable. 

+

You know what you have to do.


	4. Chapter 4

You enter the fabric store through the plain, single-door entrance. There isn't a bell that announces your arrival, but the hinges are loud and squeaky enough to make the only other shopper inside turn around for a second. The store owner looks up from her laptop, probably playing a first-person shooter game, and greets you warmly. You'd become a regular customer soon after you'd moved to the area. With good reason. 

"What'll ya have, Ka-Mary? We got some new shipments of floral brocade, if you wanna browse."

"Maybe some other time. I'm looking for some material for a jacket. Purple. Any suggestions?" 

Roxy squints. "For yourself or someone else? No offense, but too much purple's probably gonna clash with, your -- you know, your," she makes a few meaningless hand gestures, "complexion. Jade blood and all that."

"It's for someone else." 

"All righty! That's a relief. I was thinking for a moment you lost your sense of color coordination or something. There's purple stuff over by that wall, but I dunno what'd be good. Take your pick." You look in the direction of Roxy's finger and there is, indeed, a shelf of various purple materials on display. 

You used to shop at other establishments, but the selections of fabrics were never quite up to par. Roxy's small shop, on the other hand, was well-maintained and full of patterns and colors you couldn't find in more mainstream stores. You can appreciate the thought given to the business. Besides, Roxy was friendly and knew your name, even if she rarely called you anything but cutesy, shortened appellations. You don't take long finding a few samples you like, and purchase a few squares of each. 

"Who's it you're making a jacket for, then?" Roxy asks, wiggling her eyebrows as she counts out change. "Got a flushcrush?" 

Huh. Did you like Rose like that? Your favorite novels always had someone or other become more and more emotionally attached to another character, without knowing their true feelings. Reciprocation was often the trigger for eventual realization. An intriguing possibility, but Rose was too... Rose. She took care to dress reasonably well and kept up the pursuit of education, but she wasn't your type. Whatever your type was, anyway. 

"No, not quite." You might never be emotionally ready for any sort of concupiscent relationship. You might as well admit it now. 

Roxy rolls her eyes. "Okay, if ya say so. But--

_You keep on denyin'_  
Who you are an' how ya feelin'  
Baby, I ain't buyin'-- 

\--YES! Best pun ever. Gotta love being a shopkeeper. Anyway--

 _\--You're about to hit the ceiling._ " 

Obviously, Roxy had been thinking roughly along the same lines as you for a bit. You raise an eyebrow. "Really." 

"I dunno. I'd ship that so hard, though. You're like, my only source of entertainment in this void. Humor me a bit, will ya? Sooo, who's the jacket for?" 

"My roommate. Her birthday is in a week. Rose Lalonde, do you know her?" 

"OH MY GOSH! Do I know Rose Lalonde--oh my gosh!--does she wear dark lipstick and use proper grammar and everything?" 

"Yes." You suppose. 

"I can't--after that disappearing act... Bluh. She's my niece. I'm, like, two years older than her so that doesn't really mean anything, but I haven't seen her in _forever_. I gotta ask her how that long-ass research project went; if it didn't go well I'm going to be _so pissed_. Education's got no business driving families apart." 

The phone starts ringing. Roxy looks at the phone, then at you, in disappointment. "I'd love to tell you all the dirt I got on the birthday girl, but I have to take this call. Never know when someone has a fabric crisis. Tell Rose 'Happy Birthday' from her favorite aunt." 

"I'll remember to do that."

Roxy drops a handful of coins onto the counter and walks towards the phone. "Thanks, Kaykay M! I'll see ya 'round." 

"Bye." 

+

You set to work. And you work. And work. All afternoon, you draw dotted lines and cut and sew, the sun burning your back through the only window in the dorm. By the time you notice you need to turn the lights on to see, it's dinnertime. Rose isn't back from her classes yet, but it was only a matter of time. Your present had to be a secret, as explained at length by the Human Etiquette teacher, so you fold up the fabric and hide it under the couch. 

You yawn and stretch. The side of your thumb is bleeding from the one time a pin slipped, and your back is aching, but it's a good kind of ache. The kind you get when you've finished working on something you're willing to admit wasn't a horrible waste of time. Rose had better appreciate all the effort you put into this. 

+

You complete Rose's birthday present on the third of December. It's sitting in a box tied with sparkly ribbon by the morning of the fourth. You probably didn't have to put the jacket in a box, but you couldn't help yourself. You love putting things in boxes. 

It's conveniently a day of the week in which neither you nor Rose have any classes to attend. You'd say _too_ conveniently, but this isn't a murder mystery. The time for hardboiled murder mysteries passed not too long after Dave's death. 

"Rose?" you call out. You pick up the box and stand in front of the door to Rose's room. Showtime. 

"Yes, Kanaya?" 

"I was informed not too long ago that it was going to be your birthday today." 

Rose opens her door. "Really?" She looks mildly surprised. She blinks and adjusts her expression to a more neutral one. "It was John, wasn't it." 

"Yes." You give credit where it's due. And you have no use for a label like stalker in Rose's mind. 

You hand Rose the box. "Your aunt says 'Happy Birthday,' too." You wouldn't have forgotten Roxy's request so soon. An idiot is not something you're naturally inclined to be at all times. Only some of the time. "I remembered you said you like the color purple, but not in a certain sense you'd probably... rather not... bring up." Why did you have to say that? Urgh. Purple isn't even a natural skin color. 

"Um," Rose looks a little flustered, either from the reference to your long-ago conversation or from uncertainty in how to respond to her birthday present. "Thank you," she quickly murmurs, dropping her head lower than it already was. There's no trace of the fire you'd seen in her face the week before Halloween. 

Rose absconds before you can tell her she's welcome. 

You worry about her, especially since you'd gotten to know other humans like John. Something was definitely off. Her door is open and her room is unoccupied -- what an opportunity. Might you find information by not respecting her privacy? It's tempting to take a peek. 

But you don't. You're only an idiot some of the time, you remind yourself. 

+

Before you knew it, winter break had started. A whirlwind of holiday parties and ubiquitous relationship problems needing immediate attention, none of them yours, fill up your schedule. You can't help but get caught up in all of the excitement. 

You don't think to investigate Rose's situation. Perhaps you should have thought about your priorities more carefully.


	5. Chapter 5

December 21  
Dear Diary,  
I think they know where I am, and I don't know what to do. I don't want to die. Not due to any reasonable attachment to being alive -- it's something else. Kanaya might actually care about me in her own way, despite all of my personality issues. John, too. There aren't many people left, but the ones that are still aware of me will be affected by my death, if only because they must pay for a funeral. I will have to be careful. 

+

Rose opens the refrigerator door precisely at noon on the twenty-ninth of December. You're finishing up your ham and pickled grub sandwich at the table. The refrigerator door is open a long time, with Rose blankly staring at the refrigerator's contents. You munch on your sandwich, wondering silently when Rose would decide what to eat. But the refrigerator door is still open when you take your crumb-speckled plate to the sink five minutes later. Rose must be freezing over there. 

"Kanaya." 

"Yes?"

"We're out of lettuce. I'm unable to eat salad for lunch if there's no lettuce."

"You could eat beans, or some other type of green vegetable."

"That simply will not do." She mutters more quietly, "No, this will not do at all."

"Being a vegetarian does not depend on you eating only lettuce."

"Ah, but does it really not?" 

You wouldn't know. You're not a vegetarian. "I don't know." 

Rose ends the conversation by taking out milk and a carton of eggs. The refrigerator door closes at last. 

She prepares a plain omelette for her lunch. She doesn't seem very happy about it. 

At four-thirty, Rose is anxious about the lettuce shortage again. She pulls on her jacket and fiddles with the numerous buttons. You remind yourself to not sew so many onto your future projects. Aesthetics should not get too much in the way of practicality.

"Kanaya, I'm going to buy some lettuce. I can't bear to not have any." 

You smile wryly. There was nothing you could do to stop Rose, so why bother continuing a pointless passive-aggressive exchange? "Don't take too long. I'll be here reading." 

"I'll be back by five. It shouldn't take more than half an hour." 

She tosses a pink scarf around her neck, more for show than anything else, and exits. The door closes behind her neither too softly nor too loudly. Perfectly. 

Your gut twists uncomfortably. It's probably not nothing -- your gut instincts aren't that unreliable -- but you can't figure out what it is. 

What can you do? You can go back to reading, is what. So you do that. 

+

_4:31. Rose left a minute ago. You don't need to be checking the time so soon._

_4:47. It's not 5 o'clock yet. It's fine._

_4:59. Rose is still gone. Maybe the store ran out of fresh lettuce and bagged salad. Maybe she's haggling down the price per pound with a farmer's market stall owner. No, wait. There's no farmer's market in the winter. Why are you being stupid again?_

_5:00. Rose is officially late. You'll have to write a blog post about this momentous occasion. Not that you have a blog. But if you did, it would qualify for its own post._

_5:01. This isn't funny. Where's Rose?_

_5:35. A worrying situation has come about._

_6:12. A very worrying situation has come about._

_7:48. You can't remember if Rose ever gave you her phone number. Did she even have a phone number?_

_8:03. Desperate times call for desperate measures. There's a safety brochure jammed under the oven. Time to chip a few nails._

_8:05. Your chainsaw is surprisingly useful for sawing off oven legs. Bits and pieces of the nails formerly holding the rusting support sticks in place could be a safety hazard, but you're sure the safety brochure will tell you what to do._

_9:50. This safety brochure is awful. At least it provides a phone number for reporting people that are missing._

_10:25: You don't want to call them. It's like admitting defeat._

+

Rose goes missing on the twenty-ninth of December. Six hours after the time Rose told you she'd be back by, you pick up the phone and dial an utterly unmemorable series of numbers. 

Rose was never late. She never broke a promise before, not even an informal one. Rose did not take half an hour or less to buy lettuce, and that was reason enough to report her missing. 

It's late, you're tired, and you can't remember if you were supposed to wait twenty-four hours or if you were even supposed to call this weird phone number you found in this safety brochure. Weren't you supposed to call 911? It's too late to hang up now. Someone's answered. 

"Your name, please?"

"Kanaya Maryam." 

"Are you calling to report a missing person?"

"Yes. Rose Lalonde."

"What is Ms. Lalonde's relationship with you?" Interesting how some names are reserved only for females, and some for males -- to the point where people instantly know the gender of anyone based on their given name. That's one thing you've never gotten about human culture. Why can't a boy be named Rose without being met with skepticism and derision? Humans are so weird. Luckily, Rose was -- no, is -- a female and you don't make a fuss over the respondent correctly inferring her gender. 

"She's my roommate." Your eyes flit around the room. You mindlessly take in a dusty cobweb in the space between two cardboard boxes you had put off unpacking for months. You observe the defaced Squiddles poster on the wall next to the window. You don't have the heart to grimace at it as you usually would. 

"Where did you last see her?" 

"At our dormitory. She said she was going shopping, and would be back by five." Specifically, Rose went shopping for lettuce. You don't want to tell them that, because it would sound ridiculous. 

"This was when?"

"Today. This afternoon, I mean." Not in the morning. You can't forget that important detail, can you? 

You answer a few more questions and hang up. 

You don't feel anything. You really don't. You look at the defaced Squiddles poster again, in all of its Sharpie'd glory. You can't see much of it when the dying light bulbs are so dim. Messy black and lavender lines are all you can discern from where you are. There's some gibberish scrawled at the bottom, and you wish you knew what it meant. It might explain all the secrets of the universe. It might just be gibberish. 

But you don't know what any of it means and you're bent over crying. Sobbing over a few lines of random letters like the part-time idiot you are. Where are the damn tissues?! You're going to get a stain on the floor with all your green tears mixed with wasted mascara splattering everywhere. You rub at your eyes with the back of your hand even though you know it's bad for you; your skin is going to be in so much pain come evening, but you can't -- you can't stop. Watered-down mascara half-dries as sticky dark green on your skin until you viciously wipe at your tears again. And again, and again. Stupid unlocatable tissues, stupid salad-dependent vegetarianism, stupid dismay fluid. Everything in existence has the lowest IQ score possible, and no one is going to convince you otherwise. 

You fall asleep on the floor without cleaning up anything. You hope they find Rose soon.


	6. Chapter 6

They don't find Rose soon. 

+

Your room feels so much emptier without Rose holed up somewhere in it. You'd never really noticed before that Rose made quite a bit of background noise, padding around in socks and stirring up the air with her opening and closing of doors. The static noise generated by your head in the silence was driving you crazy two days later. New Year's Eve.

And Rose was missing while everyone else was getting drunk.

It's all your fault. You shouldn't have let Rose leave, not even if the two of you had run out of lettuce. Lettuce is a stupid thing to disappear for. And now Rose is gone. She might actually be dying, as opposed to your only spiritually dying state. You should be somewhere out there, trying to find Rose instead of wringing your hands and skipping meals in favor of gallons of bitter coffee. It makes you feel sick. More proof you weren't doing anything right.

You hover by the phone, waiting for a call from the missing persons investigation organization that never comes. 

You wish you had a moirail to calm you down, but that couldn't have ever worked out. You remember all too well how your first and last moirallegiance, with Vriska, had ended. You aren't too keen on reliving that particular experience.

You go for the next best thing and call Karkat. You'd always listened to his empty rants patiently; it was about time for him to return the favor.

"WHAT." Karkat sounds annoyed. A good sign, if there ever was one. He must be in a good mood today. Normally he'd be displaying his incredible control over all the rude words existing in English and Alternian. You let go of a breath you hadn't realized you were holding.

"I'm worried about Rose. She went missing two days ago, and the police haven't found her yet."

"Two days? _Only_ two days?"

"Well, she said she'd be back in less than half an hour. It causes concern how forty-eight hours is so many more times than that."

"And you're telling me this, when I have that asshole Gamzee to take care of?! He wanders off for months. Then he _miraculously_ reappears in the ablution block, scaring the clown-papping _shit_ out of me, higher than fucking Mount Everest on sopor and acting like he never left. And then I have to go along with that act like an ignorant seedflap-fondling shitsponge because he's my moirail. There is no comparison to be made here."

"Um. Rose isn't a drug addict, I don't think."

"You don't even know for sure, do you? Have you tried, I don't know, _asking her before making assumptions?_ "

"She is a truly frightening lady. I wouldn't want to do something as brash as asking about her drug habits."

You hear Karkat mutter "fuck," under his breath on the other side of the phone. You can easily imagine him flipping the nearest table in frustration. You take pity on the furniture. 

"Never mind." 

"Yeah, bye." 

You hang up. Back to wringing your hands and drinking coffee.

+

The coffee and stress take their toll on your nerves soon enough. After a pot of coffee for dinner, which you admit is a poor substitute for real food, you drag yourself over to John and Karkat's dorm a block away. You desperately need a distraction.

You take the stairs to the second floor, not wanting to hear the elevator music. The ancient wood creaks loudly under the drab carpet, and you can hear a draft whistling through the cracks in the walls. It's almost identical to your building, with snippets of conversation leaking from the spaces under doorways. You ring the doorbell to Room 216, and a moment later, John answers.

"Hi, Kanaya!" 

Karkat shouts from further away, "John, you sound like an idiot. Kanaya, you better not have come here to fucking angst about Rose like a sniveling grub with a bull penis cane shoved so far up its nook that it's giving head to a piece of preserved carcass in reverse -- dammit, does that mean it's taking head? From a dead animal? Ugh, mental image. Whatever. I'm not putting up with that kind of shit right now."

"I--"

Karkat stomps over from wherever he was earlier. "No. Not hearing it. You can go get your own moirail; I'm trying to not fuck things up with Gamzee. It's hard enough figuring out what the hell he's high on whenever I see him, so I don't need you trying to make me cheat on him."

"Just..." Karkat's complaint is warranted. You shouldn't be intruding on his moirallegiance with Gamzee. It would be rude, and you really can't imagine yourself talking about your feelings atop an uncomfortable pile of junk with Karkat. "I need to be distracted for a while. Please."

John comes to your rescue before Karkat can destroy his vocal cords more. "We can have a movie party or something."

Too late. Karkat's face is turning red. "JOHN, YOU ASSHOLE, YOU ARE NOT THROWING A SHITTY MOVIE PARTY IN THIS GODDAMN CLOSET OF A DORM."

"Haha, like you have any taste in movies, either, Karkat! If it makes you feel any better, you can pick which ones we watch."

Karkat makes some unintelligible noises, which you and John take as grudging approval.

"Great! I'll go invite some other people over." 

+

John manages to convince at least ten more people to squeeze into the room, and you all watch the most horrible romantic comedies in existence long into the night. They're so horrendous that you let yourself drink a bit of the sherry Roxy brought. Maybe a little more than a bit. It's too sweet and you choke a little when you swallow too fast. You keep drinking until it's easy to ignore the pain in the back of your throat. 

How much did you drink, anyway? Two glasses? Three? You can't remember exactly when everyone stopped paying attention to 50 First Dates and started chugging, but the world is a lot more fuzzy and glowing. It's really pretty. You wish fabric came in this kind of pattern. You would totally buy it for your next project.

You proceed to get drunk with all your friends while Rose is still missing. You still feel a little guilty before you pass out.


	7. Chapter 7

You shuffle back towards your dorm on New Year's Day, inwardly groaning at your hangover. You're dizzy, and you're not sure whether it's because of your headache or because of the three cups of sugary coffee you just downed. The coldness of the air makes you wince, and the sunlight filtering through the overcast sky is irritatingly harsh. One night of distraction for one day of headache. Was it a fair trade?

Something tells you to turn to the side. It's your think pan, and who knows why. The wind swirls snow around your bleary eyes, and you can just barely make out an alley. It would be stupid to go in there, you know. A bank downtown had been broken into during the summer, and various mugging incidents had been reported throughout the first semester. You couldn't be sure how safe it was to walk outside by yourself, let alone in an almost enclosed space where it was likely no one would hear you if you screamed.

But the wind was blowing in a direction perpendicular to the alley. It would be a nice change to not be blinded by the snow for a minute or two. You do the stupid thing and go in. 

It sounds different. Whereas before you could barely hear a thing besides the prickling wind, you're now in a bubble. It's nowhere near silent, but the contrast in volume and the amount of pain your ears are in is jarring all the same. You're distracted by your train of thought for a good ten meters or so into the alley. Then you see there's someone covered in dirt and dried reddish-brown blood at the other end, lying against a moldy dumpster. No horns. A human, then. One that had either killed something or gotten half-killed. 

You do an even more stupid thing and begin to approach them without your chainsaw. You hadn't remembered to bring a weapon before leaving your room. You hadn't even remembered to ask anyone at the shitty movie party if you could borrow one of their weapons because you were too silly and drunk. Stupid, stupid, stupid. 

Yet you keep walking forward. Your gut tells you that you aren't going to like whatever you find. You slow down and stop, seriously considering turning around. If you turn around to leave, whoever was there could stab you in the back. But if you keep going, whoever was there could stab you in the front. Maybe you could have a mental breakdown and just stand there. But then the person could still go up to you and stab you. So, getting stabbed in the front soon, in the back later, or in the front sometime between sooner and later. 

It's a lose-lose-lose situation, and you're wasting time. Following the next random urge you get, you continue towards the moldy dumpster at a normal pace. You'd get stabbed in the front, but you'd be stabbed with your stabber in your line of sight. If you survive, you can get the lowlife caught and punished. You know just the tealblood to go to if it comes to that. 

But who was this? Short hair, short skirt, short in general. A violet jacket with too many buttons, ripped around the seams. 

You know that jacket. 

You do an extremely not stupid thing and recognize a curled-up, shivering Rose. Her tights are horribly mangled, her hair in even worse condition. Her black lipstick is smeared so atrociously you couldn't even begin to process what you were seeing. Everything is coated in blood. Was it possible to bleed that much without dying? You instinctively recoil. 

At least she probably wasn't going to stab you anytime soon. 

Was she even conscious? As you bend down, fighting the urge to scold Rose for neglecting to clean herself or change her tattered clothing, her head snaps up. Her lavender gaze is feral and quite frankly, terrifying. No wonder she never made eye contact with anyone. You don't think she recognizes you, because she starts screeching incoherently. Then she whips out a pair of dangerous-looking knitting needles. Still screeching, she tries to maim you with them. You stumble backwards in surprise -- ow, ow, sudden movements dizzy more pain stupid hangover. 

So much for your assumption that she wasn't going to stab you. 

Rose continues to flail her needles, less and less frantically, at the space you just vacated. She runs out of energy not much later, rolls over onto her side, and sobs. "D-don't... touch me..." 

"I'm not going to hurt you. Do you remember me?"

Rose doesn't answer, just weakly crawls further away from you. The exertion is too much for her, and she collapses. Her knitting needles roll away. You pick them up and approach Rose again, ignoring her renewed shrieking. You're honestly surprised that you manage to drag Rose all the way to your dorm room without anyone thinking you were murdering her.

+

Rose becomes less dazed after a few minutes in a building with a heating system.

"Do you know who I am?" you try again.

Rose looks over you, squinting in concentration. After a moment, her eyes light up. "Kanaya." Then her expression turns to one of alarm. "Do you work for them?"

"What?"

"Do you work for them? Or did you pay them for me?!"

"Rose, I don't know what you're talking about." Well, maybe you do. Maybe you don't. But maybe you do. You'd suspected something at first, before Rose's actions started making you doubt yourself. 

Rose's breathing becomes labored. "You are not. Going. To rape me."

"No." An interesting take on the activities involved in prostitution, if there ever was one. You'd love to know more if you didn't have such an awful headache. But Rose hadn't specifically said she was a prostitute. You shouldn't make any assumptions. Assumptions are for people without hangovers. 

Rose turns away. "They found me again, you know. They almost killed me. I should have let them. I deserve it after all this, but no. I just have to run away. Again. Hahahah. Oh, my dear brother would have enjoyed the irony. If only they hadn't already killed him! Haha." Her laugh is as robotic as... a robot. That's pretty awful. 

Wait, John had told you that Rose had a knack for knowing things she shouldn't. And her dead brother. Her research project -- what happened to that?

Rose doesn't notice your face becoming paler, and continues her monologue of choppy sentences. "Maybe I should go outside and just stand there. They'll shoot me down sooner or later. Unless I freeze to death first, of course. Oh, how fun. Death by waiting for death."

Her close-lipped smile makes it all the more disturbing. 

You don't think you'll be able to get any useful information out of her. "I'm going to tell the people who're looking for you that you've been found. Can you take care of yourself until I've finished?"

"What? Are the police involved?" 

"I didn't call them, but by now it'd be unavoidable for them to not be involved." Did you phrase that right? You're having a hard time following what you just said. 

"Then don't tell anyone!" 

"Why." Your eyebrow twitches. 

"You can't... tell them." She sounds so pathetic. 

"I don't see--" Rose grabs your shoulders, but peers down at your shoes. She takes a deep breath in. Holds it for a split second. Breathes out. In, and out. In, and out. This is getting awkward. 

"They'll find me." Dark spots appear on your boots. Is Rose crying? "They'll find me, they'll mess with my head, and then--" A sniffle. "--they'll kill me slowly." Rose is most definitely crying. "I'm sure some of the police work for them now. It's inevitable." 

You don't have the heart to refuse her request. There's nothing in your arsenal that can counter the power of crying. 

The door to your shared dorm room is then thrown open. The door stopper crushes a hole into the wall from the force of impact. Ruuuude. Some people just have no respect for the "GO THE HELL AWAY" sign you haven't taken down yet. 

"Found you, bitch." 

Hm. This might actually require your full attention. 

The events that transpire immediately after are so surreal that you can only describe them through a numbered list. 

1\. Rose lets go of you and takes a step back.  
2\. You toss Rose her knitting needles.  
3\. You pick up your chainsaw and flip the on/off switch to "on."  
4\. The intruder points a gun at Rose.  
5\. You leap forward.  
6\. The gun goes off.  
7\. A bullet bounces off the chainsaw.  
8\. Rose pushes you to the side.  
9\. Your chainsaw drops to the floor and slices halfway through one of the coffee table's legs.  
10\. Rose: "This is my fight. Stay there."  
11\. Rose charges towards the intruder.  
12\. The intruder narrowly avoids Rose and steps towards you.  
13\. The intruder kicks your head.  
14\. Ow.  
15\. You fall unconscious.

You continue to be baffled by this Rose Lalonde.


	8. Chapter 8

January 1  
Dear Diary,  
In the eternal words of the online community, I regret nothing. 

+

When you wake up, you are propped up against the couch. Your left arm has fallen asleep, and you struggle to move it without wincing. Your head still hurts. You're pretty sure there's at the very least a large bruise on your forehead. 

Tick tock, tick tock. The clock's regular ticking nearly makes your eyelids droop down again. A lethargic glance up tells you that it's nearly midnight. 

A glance to the right tells you that the coffee table's leg hasn't been fixed nor replaced yet, but your chainsaw has been relocated. It's probably still the first of January; you're sure Rose wouldn't be able to handle having a flawed table leg in sight for long. 

You glance to the left and choke on a scream. Your internal organs twist and flop around inelegantly. If the clown man was alive, his would have been, too. You retch but you have nothing to vomit. Curse your efficient digestive system. You really just want to throw up right now. But you can't look away. 

So you stare. Stop thinking. You look but unfocus your eyes so you don't quite see the details. Acclimate yourself to the environment. Take deep breaths. 

And it's okay. The corpse is fascinating, actually. Rose had killed this clown man very gruesomely, but you marvel at how neatly her knitting needles fit into the man's eye sockets. Parallel to each other, even. All of the eye fluid had been cleaned off, but the eyeballs were still inside. Looking like smooth, expertly blown glass reflecting the pale moonlight in almost glowing splotches. You think you can see them slowly, slowly sinking into the head. There are two puncture holes at the base of the neck. Not a trace of blood marks the exposed skin, which has begun to turn an odd shade of green. He really is dead, isn't he? 

You're reminded of your drunken state from New Year's Eve. Your head is light and the corpse is too perfect to possibly be real. You must be hallucinating or something. Anything but this. It looks as if Rose had even reapplied parts of the clown's face paint. It was hilarious. It was revolting. You should be ashamed of yourself. You don't start feeling guilty, though, because everything was so-- 

Damn. 

Funny.

Hahahahahah.

You punch the corpse in the face. Its head reels back, and the knitting needles become skew to each other as the glassy eyeballs roll around in their sockets. Those useless geometry terms you'd nearly forgotten weren't useless after all! Ha. Rose's rambling and creepy laughing from before the clown man's terribly rude interruption seem perfectly reasonable now that you can barely understand anything else. There's nothing to understand but this all-consuming confusion. Clocks, dead clowns, clocking dead clowns, who even cares? You made them all up in your head. There's nothing there. You're nothing there. You are nothing and nothing is all there is to say on the matter. 

+

January 2  
Dear Diary,  
The last time I was allowed to independently take care of another living thing was when I had Jaspers. He died. Am I fit to take responsibility for anyone else's life? We shall have to see how things turn out this time, shan't we? 

+

January 3  
Dear Diary,  
I should not have killed that juggalo pimp two days ago. I've made the same mistake my brother made to protect me, but this time the mistake only resulted in Kanaya losing consciousness repeatedly and the forced abandonment of our living quarters. My decisions have not been the most laudable as of late. I daresay I've been handed the metaphorical idiot ball for the week. The only question now is how I intend to get rid of it. 

+

Where's Rose taking you? You can hear noises that sound suspiciously like more gunshots and heavy footsteps. But the clown man was dead! There couldn't be any more of him running around and shooting things. You think. Thinking has become harder to do. It came so easily to you before; where did you go wrong? This is such an annoying train of thought. You're going to abandon it. 

+

January 4  
Dear Diary,  
We won't be here for long. I'll only endanger more people if I keep Kanaya and myself so close to our former residence. I'm not willing to make John and Karkat sacrifice their lives for my worthless one, either.

+

You experience fragments. You see Karkat with an uncharacteristically worried face. He probably didn't know anyone was looking. You see John crying in front of Rose. You hear a door open and close. You hear Karkat yelling at someone on the phone. You feel yourself mechanically eating soup. Why is someone feeding you soup? You hate soup. Bluh. 

Gamzee shows up in the ablution block. He scares the clown-papping shit out of Karkat. You laugh, but the voice that comes out doesn't quite sound like you. 

Gamzee isn't high on anything. That's when your mind clears. Gamzee was not high, _and he was not happy._

Gamzee's religion involved clowns of some sort. And Rose had recently killed a clown. Oh dear.

"So I heard our sister Rose here decided to up and pick out some motherfucker's eyes with them pointy yarn tanglers."

Maybe not exactly the way you would phrase it, but yes. That is pretty much exactly what happened and this is not going anywhere good. 

"JUST LIKE THE HIGH SUBJUGGLATORS PREDICTED."

You can't vouch for the high subjugglators. You'll take Gamzee's word for it. 

"A brother'd like to congratulate you all proper like for carryin' out the duties of the mirthful messiahs. HONK." 

Rose puts down the bowl of soup and reaches into her pocket, presumably for her knitting needles. But she already used them on the dead juggalo. With a sinking feeling, you look around to see if anyone brought your chainsaw. No one had. Of course. 

"But I can't just go to town all congratulatin' you now, 'cause you just couldn't make your self come and ask a motherfucker if he already had that job for himself. COULD YOU."

Of course Rose couldn't have done that. The juggalo was about to kill both of you. There wasn't any time to casually phone Gamzee, not that you had his number in the first place, to ask him if you should leave to juggalo to him.

"You get me if you got to stay for some fair trade, sister?"

Rose was in some deep shit now.

"Gamzee. Calm yourself the fuck down." Karkat's voice wavers, though, just a little.

"NOW WHY WOULD I MOTHERFUCKING DO THAT, BROTHER? I got some serious subjuggling shit goin' down here." Gamzee whips out a pair of juggling clubs out of nowhere. "LEAVE." Gamzee turns towards you. "You too, 'less you want to get all caught up in this shitstorm. I KNOW YOU CAN HEAR ME." 

"No," you say at the same time as Karkat says, "Fuck no." 

Karkat whips out his own pair of sickles out of nowhere. People are going to get hurt. You bite your lip. You taste soup.

"Oh, hell motherfucking yes. HONK. You sure you up in the right zone to be 'railing?" 

Karkat evenly addresses you and Rose while maintaining eye contact with Gamzee, "Get out of here. I'll take care of him." You hear Rose hiss softly. She glances at you and her expression droops. She looks at Gamzee advancing towards Karkat, then back at you. In a moment, you are being dragged away, again to an undisclosed location. 

+

January 5  
Dear Diary,  
I did not realize that Karkat's moirail had such close ties to my old employers, however convoluted the connection may be. In light of this, it may be time to implement Plan C. A pity it's so passive, but one doesn't often expect Plan B to misfire.

**Author's Note:**

> 11/10/16: i haven't updated in over 3 years (!), homestuck ended months ago, and i honestly don't remember what i had outlined plot-wise for this story. the au was meant to be fairly extensive but i ran out of steam pretty early on and i don't think forcing an ending would be a good idea this many years down the line. it was a fun project while it lasted, but i won't be sticking around to complete it. 
> 
> thanks for reading and see ya!


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